The Space Between
by thread-of-string
Summary: First impressions are rarely right. Actions speak louder than words. There are times when the space between concepts, ideas and people is greater than it seems, and less than one would believe. A collection of moments between two very different Wardens.
1. Between Silence and Secrets

I: Between Silence and Secrets

He can't help but overhear the conversation, even as the darkspawn cause the blood to quiver through his veins and beat in his head. It's becoming an all too familiar tempo, and that thought makes him grumpy. His socks are wet from trooping around in the marsh, and he knows that if he were with Duncan, that he'd be complaining to kingdom come, only there's a blight happening _just over there_ and it's his responsibility to make sure these recruits get what they need so he's steeling himself and did he mention how much he doesn't like to lead?

"And what are those markings on her face?" asks Daveth from up ahead.

"All the Dalish have them," says Jory. Alistair thinks the man is trying to sound informed and failing, badly.

"What for, then?"

The knight has no answer for that, and neither does Alistair. A week ago, Duncan sent a missive ahead to warn the Wardens at Ostagar of his new recruit. The men had paused at the word _Dalish_, had huddled around it, cocked uncertain eyebrows at each other and let it lie. The Grey Wardens can't afford to be picky. They had, Alistair mused, chosen him, hadn't they?

"All I'm saying is that there's something not right about her. She don't act normal," continues Daveth.

Alistair feels his own mouth open but Jory beats him to it, saying, "I don't think it's right to talk about her like she's not here." He looks over his shoulder, his features concerned and stops. Alistair can't help his own frown and turns around to discover... nothing.

The space where Mahariel should've been was decidedly lacking in elves. Alistair's first thought is that Duncan is going to _kill_ him. He can see how it will all play out now. _So sorry, Duncan, but I lost one of your recruits even before the Joining. Whoops?_

He's about to order the other two to come with him to search for her when a howl echoes through the Wilds. The men tense, their hands goings for their blades as a wolf charges through the underbrush ahead. There is the sound of metal against metal as they unsheath, ready to slice the beast apart, and the one that follows, and the one after that, and all Alistair can think is, _Andraste's underclothes, how many wolves are there in a forest, _and, _is that what happened to Mahariel, _and_, thank the Maker it isn't darkspawn_ even though he knows that's why he's here...

And then one wolf is dead, and the second, and she's just _there_ somehow, coming from a space where no person should be able to hide, shoving an arrow into the eye of a wolf that's got too close, before nocking it back and letting it fly at another.

Alistair can only stare at the dead wolves, his sword unbloodied, feeling like a drooling idiot. Mahariel lowers her bow and regards them with flat, neutral eyes and there's a moment of silence, stretched taut between the four unlikely companions.

"Bleedin' hell," says Daveth, breaking it.

Alistair can't help but think that he's seen eyes like those before, but can't for the life of him remember where, and the memory is shattered when Mahariel crouches down next to the slain wolves, running her hands through their fur.

"These are not normal wolves," she says, her voice as neutral as those eyes.

He sheaths his weapon, feeling foolish for carrying it around when the threat – or, well, this threat anyways – has so obviously passed. "Tainted, probably." He clears his throat and says, "So it'd probably be wise if you, you know, stuck with the group." She doesn't say anything. "For safety, I mean."

"Mine, or yours, _shemlen_?"

He swears there's almost laughter in her voice, hiding underneath all the derision, and he feels himself grow hot in the face. He chooses to ignore the insult. "Both. All. Collective safety." He makes a gesture with his arms to indicate the four of them.

Mahariel slings the bow over her back, appraising him. Finally, she gives the tiniest of nods. "Very well."

Does Duncan know exactly what he's found? Alistair figures he must. Anything that's good enough for Duncan, is good enough for him.

Still, this time, when they proceed further into the Wilds, he keeps a close watch on her, aware for the very first time that she can move without a sound. If not for the fact that he can see her, right there, next to him, close enough to poke, he'd be asking the others, _elf, what elf?_

It is only much later, after she wakes from her Joining, blinking blearily at him before tagging along with Duncan to the super secret war meeting that the fragment of memory comes to Alistair.

When he was young, before being sent away to the Chantry, Arl Eamon took him along on a hunting trip. They made a camp on the edge of the woods, and in one of his brilliant plans, Alistair decided it would be fun to play in the woods, pretending at being the Hero of the River Dane, killing all those pesky Orlesians – due in no small part, he's now sure, to the Arl's new wife.

He was happily thwacking his stick at a deadly Orlesian bush when he heard the sounds of rustling behind him. Turning, he expected it to be part of the Arl's retinue, but instead on the crest of a hill stood a huge bear. It simply stared at him, and even young as he was, Alistair felt that there was a secret being kept. He also knew that if he made any move of hostility whatsoever, the bear would not hesitate to kill him. Though he may not be the most scholarly person in the world, even young Alistair had the sense to realize it would be a good idea to stay still. After a few seconds, the bear shuffled away, out of sight without so much as a backwards glance.

Those eyes were Mahariel's eyes. Of course, hers were green and the bears were more golden and bear-like, but that look of utter neutrality... Alistair hadn't seen that look of utter neutrality on anything else until now. It skirts the line between friendly and antagonistic, giving into neither.

He wonders if he'll ever tell her about the bear – if she'll ever let him, even – or if he'll have to remain impassively passive and wait for her to simply disappear into the woods again.


	2. Between Fear and Fearsome

II: Between Fear and Fearsome

She takes deep, soothing breaths in through her nose and out her mouth. Despite this, she can't help noticing that she's still a thousand times quieter in the wood than her _shemlen_ companions. If they were a hunting party, dedicated to providing for their clan, she'd bet her best bow they'd all starve. Every creature for a thousand yards would know they were coming.

These humans, they seem to delight in finding every puddle to splash, every spare twig to snap, and their ridiculous armour clatters, scrapes or otherwise clangs with every lumbering step.

One might say, _what fault is there in so much noise when the point of the excursion is to find darkspawn_? If the darkspawn discover the party first, that limits the amount of time spent in the Wilds, and brings Duncan's ritual one step closer. One step closer to her cure.

This thought should please her, but it doesn't. She knows the real reason they irritate her, though she tries to convince herself otherwise. With every noise they make, they remind her that they are not her clan, and that these are not the woods she used to stalk. They do not see her blank expression and know it is cause for concern. They do not see her heartbeat leaping in her throat and know that she is afraid. Truly, she does not know what they see when they look at her, and she decides she hardly cares.

_Tainted_, the one named Alistair said of the wolves, but Briallen knew. She saw the dull look of rage in their eyes, and behind that, the fear. She understands that fear. She feels it now. Time is running out. How long before the disease in her blood worms its way into her mind like poison? How long before she, too, becomes a rabid beast to be killed?

In the back of her mind, a voice wonders _is this what happened to Tamlen?_ Would it make it better if he'd raged, rather than simply lain down and died? Would it have lessened his pain? She doesn't have an answer, any answer, so she pushes away the questions.

She doesn't mention any of this to her companions. Duncan may have told them of her plight, and may not. Either way, she feels no kinship with these fools who don't even have the sense to _try_ and be quiet. No, this is her burden and not theirs and she will bear it with as little grace as she has left, even if her hands have gone cold with sweat.

That's why, when they come upon a wounded soldier, she hears her voice saying, "We do not have time for this. We should move on." It sounds harsh, even to her ears, and she wonders if that voice belongs to the same person as before.

There was a time when Briallen Mahariel would never have left an injured party in the woods. But these are not her woods, and this soldier is not one of her hunters, and with every moment that passes, she is sure that she is going to become like those wolves and that none of these humans will know the proper words to say at her death, nor the way to deal with her body, if they deal with it at all. Perhaps she will be left to simply rot in these dark places, with no tree to remember.

"What, you got an appointment to be somewhere?" asks Alistair, his expression disapproving. He is already removing his pack. He wears his compassion on his chest for them all to see. This, this must be what her face looked like to Tamlen, when she urged him to let the humans go.

A beat passes between them before she replies, "Fine. Bandage him if you must." She turns away so that she does not have to look the soldier in the face. Better her turmoil remain hidden. The Keeper would be ashamed to see a daughter behave so amongst strangers. The thought shames Briallen, but she is sure that she can feel the creep of disease through her veins, getting closer and closer.

"There, all done, quick as can be," says Alistair, standing up. The soldier hobbles off, and Alistair looks at her expectantly. She wonders if he is waiting for an apology he will not receive.

The larger human, Jory, gives voice to his fears and tells them he should turn back. He claims to be no coward, urging them to turn back.

But they can't turn back, because she needs to find the blood for her cure. Her heart is pounding rapidly in her chest. Is it the taint, or simple panic? She says, "You sound like a coward to me."

Alistair mediates between the two of them. "No one relishes the thought of running into darkspawn."

"No human, perhaps," she replies, and pushes past the men, further into the wilds. It's bravado, nothing more, and the worst part is she knows it. But if slaying darkspawn means that she will not become a beast, then she will butcher every single one she encounters. She will take their black blood back to Duncan so he might chisel out some cure for her. She would bring back buckets, barrels, rivers of blood if needed. It's the only reason she's here.

She does not want to be those wolves, and she does not want to be Tamlen, dying alone in the dark with no tree to remember, defiled in ways too horrendous to even put into words.

When they move on to find the Grey Warden documents, she can hear the men behind her. The small one calls her _ruthless_, and even though he's simply a _shem_, she feels a pang of something low inside her. She must remind herself that his words do not matter, and neither do his opinions. He does not understand.

She cannot be as she was. These are not the forests of her clan – bright and melodious and free. These new places are dark and barbarian.


	3. Between Murder and Mercy

III: Between Murder and Mercy

The road from one destination to another has never felt longer to Alistair – not even when he was placed upon a horse and taken from Redcliff to the Chantry. He puts one foot in front of the other because that's what he has to do – that's what Duncan would _want_ him to do – but most of the countryside goes by in a blur. What little of it he sees, well, that's going to be consumed by the darkspawn too, isn't it? It makes him sick to his stomach.

When he'd woken up, only the promise of Flemeth's magic had kept him from running back to Ostagar, just in case. That and some perverse sense of loyalty to Mahariel. She looked so tiny, curled into Morrigan's bed, brown curls plastered to her forehead with sweat. He'd thought she wouldn't wake up, couldn't wake up. He thought he'd be alone again, after finally learning what it meant to be part of something greater.

His relief at seeing her alive... he isn't sure he'll feel anything like it again.

After it was agreed that they'd make their way to Lothering with their brand new, shiny bitch of an apostate, he'd decided to try his luck. Morrigan was a ways in front, scouting their way out of the marsh, and he sidled up to the elf, whispering, "You know, we could go back. To Ostagar, I mean. There might be someone to save, some other Grey Warden who -"

She stopped, and he bumped into her, flailing to keep his balance. She never looked at him, only kept her eyes on Morrigan's increasingly distant form. "We're not going back," she stated. "There's no point. We wouldn't find anything. To go back when there's no hope – it wouldn't help your grief. Keep walking." Those were her only words of comfort, if they could be called that, before she moved beyond his reach. She was right, of course. Probably. Definitely.

He allows himself to glance at Mahariel. She's leading their ragtag team, her eyes forward and her face blank. There haven't been any backwards glances, not even little ones when she thinks nobody's watching. She looks like, well, she looks like their leader and Alistair guesses she must be. He's certainly not, and he still doesn't trust Morrigan not to slip something into their stew.

He can't help but wonder if the _leader_ feels any grief at all for the men that were lost. Anger blooms in his chest for just a moment until he realizes he's just too exhausted to worry about it.

Besides which, he tells himself, she barely met any of the men at Ostagar. Only Duncan was familiar to her, and even now, Alistair doesn't know how close they were. He's not even sure how they met. Duncan sure had a way of ingratiating himself into any circle, though...

And just like that, his throat's too tight and his eyes sting and _oh Maker, they're gone, they're all gone, and so is Duncan. _

He has to look to her again, to see her resolve, her steadfastness, her... whatever you want to call the thing keeping her standing upright and in control. That's what Alistair needs. If she could bottle it, she'd make... well, probably no money at all. But it's admirable when all he feels like doing is curling in a ball and sleeping until someone – hopefully Duncan – wakes him up and tells him it's all a bad dream.

So far, no luck.

She seems to be looking at everything with barely concealed distrust. What could be suspicious about farmsteads? About stone bridges? About a wayward tabby cat? He can't help but wonder if it's because she's Dalish, or if Loghain's betrayal was just as devastating to her. If it broke some trust deep down inside of her. If she's a different person than she was a week ago. If the thought of being one of the few Grey Wardens left with a Blight to stop makes her wake up sweating in the middle of the night.

As they near Lothering, he realizes he wants these things to be true. He wants to have something in common with her, besides the fact that they're the only two Grey Wardens left standing. He wants to know that Ostagar didn't leave her totally unaffected.

That frown, that distrust, they deepen as men approach them on the highway into the town. They seem friendly enough, until Alistair realizes that they are all heavily armed. _Not so friendly, then._

"Bandits," he says, "preying on refugees fleeing the Blight."

"They are fools to get in our way," says Morrigan from beside him, and her tone reminds Alistair how much he dislikes her. "We should teach them a lesson."

Mahariel glances at them over her shoulder, her first time looking back. She licks her lips. He feet slide apart slightly, her hands twitching. "We are no refugees," she tells the bandits_. _In her voice is a threat, and Alistair can feel his own fingers tingling for his blade. "Move aside," she adds.

From the look on the bandit's face, he doesn't get it. Alistair wants to tell him that if there were any woman impervious to bluffing, on the giving _and_ receiving end, it would be the elven woman standing between them. Just because she looks tiny enough to snap with one hand, doesn't mean it's true. Mahariel doesn't use bravado – she doesn't need to. She's cool precision in the face of danger. He can see why Duncan would choose her.

The bandits obviously aren't that bright, and when they attack, he has no choice to draw his weapon. He swipes at their arms, at their legs, so that they are down, incapacitated, but not dead. They lie on the bridge, bleeding, and Alistair realizes he's breathing hard when he hears someone say, "Mercy!"

The leader lies on his back, his sword three feet away. His shaking hands are held up in front of him. Mahariel has her arrow pointed directly between his eyes, not blinking, maybe not even breathing. "_Why_?" she asks, and there is something akin to frustration, to desperation, in her voice. Her eyes are searching the leader's face, looking for some clue to her question.

_Why what?_ Alistair wants to ask. _Why did they attack you? Why is the sky blue? Why does the rooster crow? Why us?_ He doesn't know what answer Mahariel is looking for, and, being honest, he's not sure she does either.

"Please, let me go," says the bandit leader. "You can take all the coin we have if you -"

Mahariel barks out something in Elven, her voice dripping with disdain. Alistair takes two steps forward, ready to touch her on the arm, to stay her hand but he never gets the chance because there's a woosh and suddenly the bandit's face is a little less pretty. Alistair can't help but stare because he's never killed a man, only darkspawn, and now there's a corpse right there and Mahariel doesn't even look sorry...

"Well, well," says Morrigan from beside him, and there is the faintest note of approval in her voice.

The elf, she doesn't say anything, merely walks into Lothering like she owns the place. Alistair feels sick about the whole thing, and amends his previous opinion. He can't imagine what Duncan was thinking when he took in this woman. Grey Wardens are supposed to be heroes, and she just killed a man begging for his life, and he can still smell the blood and see the ruined mess that was once a man's face, and all he hears is what Daveth said about her in the Korcari Wilds.

_We'll have to watch ourselves with her, boys. She's as like to kill us as help us, I think. Ruthless, that one. Guess all those stories about the Dalish weren't just tall tales. _

It's only later, when he returns from buying supplies that he sees her crouched down in front of a young boy by the bridge. The boy, he's thin and looks as though he hasn't had a good scrub in a while. Mahariel's still frowning, but she's lost her bloodthirsty sheen, seeming only confused and... concerned? He's certain he might die of shock.

"Come," she says, and Alistair had no idea her voice could even take on a tone resembling _nice_, "I will help you find your mother."

"No," shouts the boy. "Mother said I was supposed to stay right here 'til she got back."

He watches Mahariel pause, her hand outstretched to the boy. Slowly, she pulls hand back, then rummages something from a pouch on her belt. She hands the boy a silver, unperturbed by the amount of coin she's handing to a boy who's seen maybe eight winters, and says, "At least go buy yourself something to eat."

"Wow, a whole silver! Thank you!" cries the boy, taking it in his hands reverently. He makes like he's about to run off, but stops mid-step. "You know, my dad says elves are mean, but you're the nicest one here!" And then he's off, skinny legs carrying him as fast as they can to the nearest merchant.

Mahariel sits crouched for a long time. Her eyes look sad – no, not sad, almost heartsick. Maybe she might have some idea how ironic that boy's statement was. It's the most emotion Alistair has ever seen on her face. He wants to say something, anything. He wants to know the Mahariel who isn't all about shooting fallen men in the face. But his armour clanks as he moves and she's up, standing, back to looking totally unimpressed with the world, and with him in particular.

"We should head to your Chantry," she says, and he resists the urge to remind her that it's not _his_ Chantry, really, because then she says, "Did you get the supplies?" She's moved closer, and he holds out the purse to her, nodding. Her hands tremble as she clips it to her belt. "Good."

She's all efficiency and distance and leader-like.

But she's not fooling him. Underneath that exterior, very, very far down, there's an actual person. Maybe someday he'll finally get to meet her. So long as that person doesn't end up being even more scary than the one that's already in front of him, of course.

That would definitely be bad.


	4. Between Vice and Value

IV: Between Vice and Value 

Money continues to be a mystery to her. On the long trek out of the Wilds to Lothering, Alistair gave her the party's purse. She assumes that this must be common practice amongst humans, to give the money to the de facto leader, and so accepts it because the lines on Alistair's face all drag down and she knows that look well. She wears it when she's alone, sees her reflection wearing it whenever she fetches water for their makeshift camp.

She wishes she had something to say to this human, but all she can think is, _It doesn't get better_, and, _I don't think it ever will_, and she can't tell him that, because even if she doesn't respect him, she can respect that look on his face.

So she takes the purse, and when she's alone at night, she dumps it out and begins to take count of all the little pieces. Gold are obviously the most valuable, with the tiny coppers being the least. Any fool could suss that out. She makes sure she knows exactly how many of each are in the purse, before taking five silvers of her own and putting them in another small purse as a contingency in case the worst should happen.

But Briallen, she finds herself wondering if it's enough. If they were to lose their money, how much would they need to continue? And by taking too much to set aside, would she be dooming the party? Would it look like thievery? These questions plague her in the middle of the night, but she doesn't dare ask anyone, because she is the leader and she must know what she is doing. Besides which, she doubts Morrigan would know any more than her and it's clear that Alistair is in no position to lead.

Among the Dalish, there was no need for money except when interacting with the outside world. Thus, the only two people in the camp to possess coin were Keeper Marethari and Master Ilen. They would broker the agreements between the clan and outsiders, gaining or distributing currency as was needed. Briallen never stopped to think about money, and why would she? The clan shared everything communally. Each person had their role to play, and so long as they fulfilled it, they were entitled to the food, lodging and equipment that belonged to them all.

She can't help the disgust she feels, then, when she's assaulted not only by bandits who demand money for simply walking along the road, but also by a merchant who refuses to share his wares with his clan – no, not clan, his _town_ – even though they have money to give him. It is not enough, he says. I do not have enough, he says. All she can think is that when food is scarce with her people, they give the most to the children, and everyone else eats a little less.

The bandits, she killed them. She knew that Alistair disapproved of this, for she could feel his eyes on the back of her head, could sense his readiness to stop her. But how could they deserve to live? Their own people are starving, dying, and instead of taking up a task to help, they see to their own needs. The merchant, too, is guilty of this and the only thing that stops her from putting an arrow between his eyes is the thought of what Ashalle would say, and the knowledge that it would be impractical to simply kill everyone with whom she disagrees.

Frankly speaking, that's turning out to be the large majority of the _shemlen_ she encounters. She can't bludgeon her way through their society, especially considering it now falls upon her to request their aid in ending the Blight.

"It's merely survival of the fittest," offers Morrigan, and Briallen can't help but wonder if greediness is an inherent part of being human, if self-preservation – no, not even that, something closer to ambition – trumps their desire to care for others. If so, it's no wonder her people lost Arlathan and the Dales. She has never met a Dalish who did not offer another assistance if required.

She takes this as an opportunity to use her words instead. "Surely you could lower your prices and still turn a profit? These people will give you all the coin they are able, should you only allow them. There is nothing to be gained if none can pay." The words taste bitter at the back of her throat.

Tamlen once told her that she had a honeyed tongue in more ways than one... But that is not a thought for right now. Or even for the foreseeable future. Or ever, perhaps. Tamlen, the Briallen Mahariel that used to exist, they feel lifetimes away now.

This merchant, he raises an eyebrow at her. "Mayhap you're right – but you don't look too hard done by, so it'll be regular pricing for you, elf."

Briallen resists the urge to say, _As you like shemlen_. It is almost overwhelming, but she didn't use diplomacy only to retreat in the face of victory.

The merchant shows her his wares: food, poultices, bits of armour, salves – all the things a travelling party might need. She is once again confronted with her own ignorance about the worth of things. She can feel Alistair hovering behind her, then beside her, looking at things, picking at them, turning them over. For a few minutes, she attempts to mimic him, finding that she can tell the quality of the item, but is unable to guess at the value in gold. She feels flushed, like she might faint at any moment, because for all her talk and big attitude, she doesn't know how to be with humans but she _needs_ to know because she is now the leader. It's clear, however, that she's fighting a losing battle.

She sets down a jar of salve harder than she intended, prompting a dirty glance from the merchant. It takes all her determination to shove the coin purse at Alistair.

"Pick out some supplies," she says, keeping her voice as flat and authoritarian as possible. "I'm going to look around."

Briallen hopes he does not notice how quickly she walks away, or how her hands are shaking.


	5. Between Dreams and Demons

Interlude - Dreams and Demons

Mahariel tosses on her bedroll, her arms swatting at something no one else can see. She's screaming too, screaming like death itself is chasing her, but Alistair knows better. What's chasing her is _worse_.

He wants to do something, to wake her up. He may not like her, but he can sympathize. Grey Warden dreams are unpleasant business. To see her looking so vulnerable... It's unnerving. He wants to take her in his arms and tell her that it will be all right, not because he relishes the inevitable pain that will follow when she punches him, but because they are the only two left. Because it shouldn't be him that has to teach her about this stuff – stuff that he's only just beginning to understand himself. Because in this one thing, he should be man enough to take charge, because she's taking charge of everything else and he's letting her.

She jolts awake, brushing the hair out of her face. Her heart pounds so hard she can hear it in her ears, feels it flutter like a little bird in the pit of her chest. There was something in the darkness, something that knew she was watching. It was long and sinuous, and she felt as if she were going to suffocate from the smell of bloodlust so thick it hung in the air like a morning mist. Then it, it looked at her, and all she could feel was searing pain as it gazed deep inside her, and Briallen knew that whatever this thing was, it knew all her secrets, all her fears and pains and weaknesses.

"Bad dreams?" asks Alistair, startling her. He's watching her from around the fire, his face full of knowledge she doesn't quite appreciate or trust. He looks grimmer than she's ever seen.

Keeper Marethari had that look on her face when asking about Briallen's condition after... The concern, she'd seen that on Fenarel and Merrill's faces, when they'd gone looking for Tamlen. Like they knew something was wrong. Like they knew she was in trouble. She'd brushed aside their fears, and in the long run, they'd been right. She'd been corrupted, dead while walking.

So she says, "Why are you bothering me? I'm fine," because she needs to be strong. She doubts Alistair will take up the mantle of responsibility should she drop it, so she must cling to it with ever fibre of her. She must not let it show.

Alistair realizes she must think him an idiot, all drool and aimless following. It's pretty apparent that she's _not_ fine, and the fact that she's being so abrupt with him causes a deep seed of resentment in him. He'd accuse her of learning bad manners from Morrigan, only Mahariel wasn't exactly a stellar conversationalist before this and Morrigan has a habit of playing with her prey. He wants to tell her that they're the only two Wardens left, in case she's forgotten, and that means they should work together, even if she feels like being Princess Frosty.

Instead, he says, his voice not entirely pleasant, "It's just that you were thrashing about and yelling in your sleep, and not in the _this is private_ sort of way. You saw it, didn't you? The horde, and the archdemon."

It may be the news that's just been thrust upon her, or it may be her exhaustion, but Briallen suddenly feels like the world is spinning around her, and that, though she's on the ground, she will fall and shatter into a million pieces. There are many things she wants to ask, many things she wants to say, but she finds that every question, every statement makes that tiny spot of fear quiver. So, her voice all business, "The archdemon? You mean the dragon?"

Which surprises him, because when Alistair first saw the archdemon in his dreams, he awoke in a cold sweat, his hands shaking. His brothers had crowded around him, patting him gruffly on the back and sent him to Duncan. He'd thrown up, and hadn't been himself for days. Mahariel, though pale, looks just the same as ever. He has to wonder which of the two of them is the better Grey Warden – he, perhaps the more loyal to the order, the more moral... Or her, who doesn't seem to care about anything except what needs to be done.

He tells her what Duncan told him, about the archdemon, and the horde, and the Blight. When he's finished, she's looking pensive, chewing at her bottom lip thoughtfully. And though the urge to take her in his arms has since passed, he can't help himself when he blurts out, "It was scary for me too."

She wants to deny that she's scared. But she looks up at him, and his face is so open, his gesture of friendship – and if not friendship, then at least of brotherhood – is so bare, is laid out for all to see, that she can't find the words to tell him to go away. The bitter retort dies in her throat, and she can only manage to say quietly, her eyes averted, "Thank you, Alistair. I appreciate it." She isn't surprised by his shocked intake of breath, or his clumsy fumble out of the conversation.

What surprises her is that she actually means it.


End file.
